Pause Rewind Play
by FruitPastilles
Summary: "'It gives me a hundred chances,' he thinks, even as his hands scrabbled for something sharp amidst the chaos. 'To do it again, better this time.' A knife against his throat, a red smile in his skin." Izuku dies to a villain at the age of fourteen, his hero a step too late. He wakes that morning with the chance to try again. And again. And again. Until he gets it right.
1. Chapter 1

**Pause. Rewind. Play.**

 **Summary: "** 'It gives me a hundred chances,' he thinks, even as his hands scrabbled for something sharp amidst the chaos. 'To do it again, better this time.' A knife against his throat, a red smile in his skin." Izuku dies for the first time at the ripe age of fourteen, down the wrong tunnel with an ambitious villain and a hero just a second too late. He wakes up that same morning and gets the chance to try again. And again. And again. Until he gets it right.

* * *

When Izuku awoke, it was with a flail, a choked off noise stuck in a throat no longer filled with mud, or guck, or _villain._ The bed sheets caught his legs, tangled him up, and for a brief, frightening moment, he was sure he was being strangled again, swallowed up.

The light filtering through the lazily drawn curtains was gentle, but bright, casting shadows across the bedroom floor.

He was home.

Izuku pressed the back of a faintly trembling hand to his mouth, tried to swallow down the urge to hurl at a phantom taste of something foul and putrid clinging to his tongue and the back of his teeth.

Just a nightmare, was what he told himself as he glanced at the alarm clock, numbers flashing cheerfully to tell him the time and date. Just a bad dream, one from staying up too late, prying too deep into the sordid affairs of heroes and villains.

Izuku was sure he couldn't remember anything about a villain that moved like something rotten come back to life, a rolling, cloying lump of mess and rotten fluid other than what he had seen behind closed eyes.

He was startled out his thoughts by the alarm clock blaring, a tinny little beep that repeated itself insistently until Izuku sat up and jabbed the button, the bedroom once more thrown into silence.

Tomorrow, he wouldn't need the alarm, his last day of middle school bleeding into the holidays that would lead into his high school life in just mere months.

Swinging his legs to the side and planting his feet firmly on the floor, Izuku pressed his hands to his face and tried to will away the sensation of drowning under the weight of a villain made of sludge and horror.

* * *

Breakfast was normally a simple affair in the Midoriya household. A quick meal, before Izuku was hurrying out the door to get to school, all for those few extra minutes in a cosy bed and cosier kitchen.

When Izuku stepped into the kitchen, to sit at the small table he shared with his mother for most meals, he was hit with a truly staggering bout of deja-vu.

"I know I shouldn't have gone so overboard," his mother was saying, one hand pressed to her cheek as she looked at Izuku endearingly. "But it's your last day of middle school, and I wanted it to be special."

Izuku tried his best approximation of a smile, and apparently it appeased his mother, because she bustled around the table, making sure he was seated, setting a plate in front of him and then ruffling his hair for good measure.

Picking up his cutlery, Izuku let his chopsticks hover over the spread of food on his plate and in the little side dish bowls either side, set like moons to the planet of his plate. It was almost unbearably familiar as he went to poke at his fish, and to get rid of the stomach churning sensation, he immediately went for the rice instead.

The feeling came and went as his mother joined him at the table, ebbing and flowing like the tide but not as slow. Rather, faster, like the beating of a bird's wings, up came the feeling of familiar-but-wrong, down came the calm. There were less downs than ups.

He helped with the dishes that morning because he had the time, and didn't fear being late, rolling up his uniform sleeves to keep them from getting sullied or wet, even though today would be the last he wore them. The down, the calm, was stronger. His mother's smile, stronger again.

They had a well set up system, years of living together, gravitating around one another as parents and their dependent children were wont to do, their relationship strong from many a year of it just being 'us', a trio turned two before Izuku could even walk.

Izuku always washed, would scrub sometimes until he couldn't think, could let the day wash down the drain. He tried to do that this morning, his dream disappearing under suds and murky water.

Inko would always be standing where the next dish would need to go, pulling it across the room with a subtle turn of her fingers, drying it where she stood before placing it into the cupboard. Izuku always envied the ease at which Inko utilised her Quirk, no matter that it wasn't as flashy as others could be. She had a mastery borne of many years practice, and she wielded that mastery with grace.

Izuku's hopes of being like a hero, or even like his mother, had been dashed away at the soft, young age of four by an x-ray that showed the horrendous truth.

"Thank you, Izu-kun," Inko said softly, as Izuku dried his hands on the towel she offered. "The dishes always get done faster when we work together." He was nearly taller than her now, but level enough to close his eyes and bask in her affection when she dropped a kiss to his head, her hand gently cupping his cheek.

"Now then," she continued, taking the towel away from his drier hands. "It's time you get your shoes on, young mister, and get going before you're too late. I'll make your favourite tonight, and we're going to eat it on the sofa watching movies, okay?"

"Yeah," Izuku breathed, smiling wide, and wider still when Inko gently pinched his cheek and murmured gently, barely a whisper, as if he wasn't meant to hear, "I'm so proud of you."

* * *

In the last class of the day, when Izuku had slogged through final lessons, teacher's farewells and rambunctious students looking forward to their weeks of free time, their teacher was replaced instead by the guidance counsellor.

"Some time ago," he began, voice placid as he looked at the multitude of papers in his hands. "You were asked to write down your future aspirations. Whether you wanted to go to a regular graded school, a technical school, an internship, what you wanted to do in your future after your choice of further education. I felt like today was a good chance to touch upon that, to make sure you are all certain, and ready, to take this next step."

"Of course I'm certain," a voice rang out above the rest, and Izuku couldn't help as he slumped in his seat to try and become a smaller target.

Bakugou, feet up on the desk, was grinning. His feet dropped, an audible thump against the floor against the floor as his chair swung back forward onto all four legs with a sharp 'clack'.

"I'm leaving all you losers behind and going to Yuuei. I'm going to be the Number One Hero!"

Murmuring broke out amongst his classmates, some admiring, others wondering, none doubting.

"You aren't the only one to apply, if I remember correctly," the counsellor said absently, shuffling pages again. Izuku felt the swooping up feeling again, his lunch sitting heavy at the sensations, of familiar, wrong, the impending doom, like there was a guillotine above his head and it was ready to drop.

"Midoriya, you also wrote down Yuuei as your hopeful, didn't you?" the counsellor asked. Izuku closed his eyes and felt the blade drop.

* * *

It hurt, not just physically, when Bakugou had pressed a smouldering hand to his shoulder, the cheap material of the uniform burning, the skin underneath hot. It hurt, that all of his hard work had been turned to something just short of ash and soot, the pages delicate under his fingers as they threatened to crumble.

It hurt when Bakugou told him he would be better off taking a walk off the edge of a building to see if maybe next time he'd be a little better off, wouldn't be labelled Quirkless. Izuku had entertained that thought for no longer than a second before filing it away into the depths of his brain.

His walk home was at nearly a trot, the burn of tears threatening his dignity with every passing second, his throat tight with emotion. The sheer feeling of _terror, suffocating, drowning_ that assaulted him as he stepped into the tunnel he used as a shortcut was an unwelcome break from his tumultuous thoughts.

Hesitantly, he grasped his bag strap tight and only stopped for a bare second before he was walking down the tunnel, one of his sides near pressed against the wall. He didn't know what had suddenly brought on the uncontrollable bouts of familiarity, but the ceiling was looking uncomfortably close to the one he'd been looking at when he'd died in a dream that felt a thousand years ago.

The sewer grate he had just passed clattered open, something moist and wet dragging across the floor and making a noise like a sibilant hiss, a rasp.

Izuku didn't want to turn around. His heart was in his throat, his fingers white knuckled and tight. His feet would not listen, one and then the other slowly shuffling to turn his body.

"Hiding place," the gelatinous thing from his nightmares began, " _found."_

* * *

Izuku woke up, softer this time. There was no flailing, despite the sharp clarity, of being suffocated, swallowed, taken apart.

He was smart enough to know what had just happened wasn't a dream.

He was smart enough to try again.

* * *

Aha. Hahahah. I have so much stuff to be working on.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Six times. Izuku picked up a marker pen from his desk and drew the number in his loopy handwriting onto the skin of his wrist. Blowing the ink dry, he capped the pen and pulled down the sleeve of his jacket to cover the mark.

Six times. Seven, if he counted that first frantic morning.

Blowing a gust of air out of his nose, Izuku debated his options with a heavy heart. Nothing he did would return in the morning if he died. It wouldn't matter what he told his mum, his teachers, any officials. They wouldn't remember if he didn't make it through the day, and he rather didn't fancy being locked up for sounding crazy.

Izuku gripped his wrist tightly, the number hidden under a layer of cloth and did his absolute best not to cry.

* * *

It was almost a chore now. He knew everything his mother would say when he stepped into the kitchen. Everything she would do or how she would reply.

But that was when it came to Izuku. In fear of another death he'd focused too much on the bigger picture, the avoidance or an alleyway, a dark tunnel and a final breath.

And so, instead of carrying on with the conversation of how he thought that day at school would go, Izuku swallowed a mouthful of rice and asked, "What are you going to do today mum?"

Inko's mouth curved into a smile, a gentle indulgent one and she said, "You're nervous about today, huh?"

Izuku started, wondering if he'd slipped up, let out more than he knew but his mum reached out to pat on his hand.

"Izu-kun," she said, "you are a young boy with the world ahead of you. Even if after your break you don't go to the school you want, or learn what you want to, there's always another chance."

"I," Izuku began, and remembered the sting of knowing he couldn't be a hero and still wanting to try anyway. "I just want to help people," he said instead, uselessly.

Inko's hand curled around his, fingers tucked under his palm, thumb rubbing gently back and forth across the back of his hand. Her face was so patient Izuku felt the burn of tears in his eyes.

"You already do, just as you are," Inko's voice was soft. "And it might not seem much right now, but you help me Izu-kun. And just like that you could help others too. It doesn't have to be flashy, or, or televised. You don't need a Quirk to be who you want. I want you to know that because you're worth more than your teachers and classmates seem to make you think you are."

Izuku didn't get the chance to help with the dishes that morning, instead letting himself be pulled into a soft warm hug as his mother murmured even softer words to him and let him hide his tears.

* * *

The teacher outed him again and his mind bitterly whispered, _six times_. Izuku was only able to wait, hopelessly, as Bakugou approached him, anger and callous humour twisting his face.

Something made that day different. Izuku didn't know what possessed him, but he picked his way to the school roof, the wind catching his hair and the scattered broken pages of his book, the one he had packed every single day despite knowing the final outcome, of Bakugou clapping his hands and ashes scattering.

It was very hard. He debated it for a very long time, even as the pain throbbed in his chest from harsh, bitten words, the image of Bakugou's sneering face on his thoughts. He wondered, briefly, if it was the way out.

He remembered, less brief, his mother's words that morning.

 _You are a young boy with the world ahead of you._

That stung, too, that he _didn't_ have the world ahead of him. That he was stuck in the limbo, the hell that was reliving the day over and over and over, dying in the same way yet still so terrified of what was coming. That he couldn't even get home, to sit on the sofa with katsudon and cheesy movies.

 _There's always another chance._

Izuku let out a heavy breath as he stared down at the concrete so far below. Then he picked his bag back up and made his way back to the stairs. The angry thing in him wanted to try it anyway. The larger, frightened, loving, worried part was too scared, wondering if this would be the final one if he did.

He couldn't do that to his mum. Not now, not ever.

The dark, quiet staircase greeted him, his heavy footsteps echoing around him, bouncing off the closed in walls.

Izuku didn't know how many chances that his situation had given him, unfairly, but he would fight it. Would scratch and bite, use tooth and claw, desperation, until he could wake up and it would be the next day.

Inko Midoriya had done a lot of things in her life. She hadn't raised a quitter.

* * *

Izuku didn't want to take the shortcut home. He'd found out on the third try that the longer route was blocked by rubble, a wayward villain throwing a tantrum while Izuku was still in school, still learning, still dreading the day's end.

"Just my luck," Izuku muttered bitterly, staring down the entrance of the tunnel.

He hadn't taken two steps, hadn't even reached the sewer grate of nightmares when it was clattering open and Izuku paused at this new development. And then he nearly smacked himself, because the villain showed up at the same time everyday but today Izuku was the one who was late, because he'd had the choice.

As it turned out, the hurried backpedal away from the encroaching villain was what saved him. Those extra seconds, moments, pried desperately from the universe meant that instead of suffocating, clawing at his face, Izuku was taking in great, heaving breaths, hands on his knees.

And, looking up, there was All-Might.

"Never fear!" All-Might declared, smile stretching his face wide and cheerful. "For I am here!"

And, unable to help himself, Izuku had blurted, "Oh thank _god."_

All-Might's expression barely even wavered as he helped Izuku upright, Izuku still feeling loopy, loose, weak-kneed from oxygen deprivation but so wonderfully alive.

"Sorry you got caught up in that," All-Might sounded fairly contrite, even as he secured the bottle of villain into a pocket of his outfit.

Izuku was not surprised to see All-Might in casual clothes – it wasn't often that in demand heroes had the time to go to their agencies and dress up ready for the coming danger. A lot of them found trouble in the field. This trouble had just so happened to involve Izuku.

"It's alright," Izuku replied, wondering if it would be rude to just gather absolutely all of the saliva in his mouth and spit, to get rid of lingering foulness.

All-Might gave him a strange look then, and Izuku abruptly realised that, just perhaps, he should have been a tad more hysterical, a tad more concerned that he had just been snatched from the jaws of imminent death.

"I'm okay," Izuku added, as if it would make it any better. "He didn't have me for very long."

His previous gasping and heaving disproved that, and All-Might's expression of suspicion just deepened instead. But then he twisted his wrist, catching a glimpse of his watch and his suspicious face tightened into something unreadable before he was once again smiling.

"I'm glad you came out of this unharmed, my boy," All-Might responded, "but it's about time I got this villain to where he belonged."

As All-Might prepared to take off, Izuku had a moment of internal, silent panic. This was it. He'd met his childhood hero and now he had the chance to get more out of this situation than a sludgy, messy death.

So when All-Might made to leap, so did Izuku. What commenced from there on out, nearly hurt worse than dying.

* * *

It was painful. Nearly unbearably so, when Izuku had asked if he could become a hero, could help others as All-Might did and had been told a flat no. Just…not possible. Impossible. Not even unlikely, just not.

Izuku had run out of tears that afternoon already, when he'd stood on the edge of a building and looked down at what might have been his end, or just been another continuation of the same day, over and over.

Fear made him wonder if, even if he got home, greeted his mother, had his dinner, crawled under the covers – would the next morning be the same again? Was this what his life had been reduced to?

Reduced to death, or rejection, for infinity.

Izuku gripped his bag strap tightly and tried to shove the fear away, into the same part of his brain where Bakugou's cutting words were hidden, forgotten except for when Izuku was weak, and doubtful.

So, lost in his thoughts, he nearly missed the scream and bustling ahead of him, shouted words and louder voices, demanding answers. Over it all was a voice that Izuku had come to know intimately. A voice he thought, perhaps, he'd never hear again once All-Might had stuffed the owner into a plastic bottle, with Izuku watching and viciously hoping that he'd suffocate in that small prison.

Turning the corner, Izuku witnessed what fresh hell the day had sought fit to throw at him.

Nothing could quite compare to seeing Bakugou in a position Izuku knew as familiar, and the fear in Izuku's stomach seemed to curdle, intensify but, at the same time, harden into anger. Fury. Hatred.

Izuku was on the other side of that sort of suffering now. Knew how it felt, how it hurt.

It was thoughtless, to throw himself through the group of spectators and heroes, hands grasping at him and missing as he rushed forward to…

And abruptly, he thought, ' _to do what?'_

The answer, apparently, was to watch as a hand swung up, Bakugou's visible face twisted in horror.

* * *

Izuku woke up, still imagining he could taste the ash that had once been his face in his mouth. It had been quicker. A hot burst and then his bed.

But now Izuku knew how to get there. Knew the alternatives.

It was all worth it, when he had the number nine written on the skin of his wrist, and All-Might told him he could be a hero.

* * *

Izuku woke up. The alarm clock flashed numbers. A difference, small, of one number. He'd made it.

He cried.

* * *

get rekt son. I love Izuku. Really


End file.
